


A Time and Place for Sentiment

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tests the state of the air on the tips of his fingers, rubbing them together. Cold, crisp, slightly wet, wonderful. Snow, oh brill-brill-<i>brilliant</i>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Time and Place for Sentiment

By the time they’re through at the morgue it’s nearly midnight and Molly has had just about enough. She’s three coffees deep and so when Sherlock brings the sheet over the male victim with a flourish, she sags a bit in relief.

Grabbing the clipboard for the corpse, she rolls out the cricks in her neck. “Until tomorrow, then?” she asks, going for perky but hitting somewhere just south of exhausted.

Sherlock is scribbling in his Moleskine but has gotten better about keeping an ear out for Molly, for softening his blows around her. John’s been a wonderful influence in that regard. “Yes, yes, likely back tomorrow.” He shoves the pen down the cracked and crumbling binding and turns on heel just as John clears his throat. “Oh, right, erm, thank you,” he adds.

Molly’s lips perk as she goes about tidying up. “Taught him how to roll over and beg, too?” she asks under her breath in amusement; it seems the late hour has taken the lid off of little Miss Molly Hooper.

He’s been softer lately, less jagged around the edges. For all of John’s pestering, it seems that Sherlock is beginning to temper himself, if only a bit. Even at home, when John turns on the telly there are no shouts for peace and quiet, just an uttering of “Please keep the volume _down_.” They’ve finally started sharing space on the couch, as well, more than once in a more intimate manner than John had anticipated.

Sherlock sees no problem in laying out flat on the couch, his head resting on John’s thigh; he speaks aloud during his deductions and John keeps his eyes front on the telly and they go about their evening as though this isn’t a deliberate shift, as though this is all just fine and needs no explanation.

He’s made tea and toast twice over the past few months and managed to prepare both properly; he’s stopped scattering his papers all over the place after John had made a truly cutting statement about Sherlock not “respecting” his space.

John’s not trying to change him, not really, he would never. He has too much respect - and is enamoured - for the man to change thing one about him; it’s simply easier to cohabitate with someone who is slightly less... manic.

John has done his part, too. He keeps out of Sherlock’s hair when he wants to experiment and has set aside distinct spaces in the refrigerator for his specimens. There are cabinets cleaned out, too, for Sherlock to store all of his necessities. John even labels them for him, keeps notes for him when he’s out of the house.

There’ve been a few months of give and take that have suited them both quite well and they’ve not really needed to speak about it after the fact.

It’s all just fine.

John chuckles pleasantly, pleased with Molly’s turn of phrase, pleased with the roll of eyes that Sherlock graces them with. It isn’t often that someone takes a jab at Sherlock without receiving a particularly acute lancing in return. This time however, he simply stalks out of the room, the door flapping on its hinge behind him.

“Night Molly,” John says kindly and follows the fluttering overcoat through the morgue doors and into the fluorescent-lit hallway. “She’s got your number, now,” there’s no helping the grin that light’s John’s face.

Another precise roll of his eyes as they march down the hallway, the heels of Sherlock’s shoes clicking precisely against the linoleum, crisp little cracks. “It’s midnight, she hasn’t eaten since noon, of course she’s irritable,” Sherlock reasons, glancing at the ceiling as they walk towards the exit. They stopped signing out at the front desk ages and ages ago.

John pumps his fists at his side, leaning in to glance at Sherlock’s face and yes, there it is, irritation. Molly did get his goat, at least a bit; this is overwhelmingly amusing to John, causes a bit of a bounce in his step as they press through the heavy side door and into the cold London air.

It takes John a moment - because he’s still studying Sherlock’s face, he’s taken with the way the color of his eyes shifts as they move from bright to dim - that it’s snowing. And if the crunch beneath his boots is indication, it has been for quite some time. John pauses in the mulling of Sherlock’s irises and pauses in his movement, slowly lets his foot step down into the snow, listening.

He appreciates the squeaky-solid sound of snow being impacted in upon itself and realizes that he hears it far too infrequently; that’s a bit saddening, actually, and John’s mouth screws up into a sort of happy frown. He’s lost track of Sherlock now and he has snowflakes on his eyelashes, dappling his coat but he takes another agonizingly slow step forward and listens for the squeak-crunch. Brilliant, oh, just fantastic.

John tests the state of the air on the tips of his fingers, rubbing them together. Cold, crisp, slightly wet, wonderful. Snow, oh brill-brill- _brilliant_! He loves snow; loves it, _romanticizes_ it. Between this and Molly’s near-delirious jab, he’s in a right fine state.

Another quiet, slow footfall and John nearly _giggles_ ; perhaps he’s a bit overtired too, but this fine feeling has invaded his very bones and there’s no ridding himself of it now. He glances up at the sky (strangely purple-black) and then towards the end of the drive where Sherlock is paused, turned, looking at him. Standing under the streetlight John watches as thick flakes flutter into Sherlock’s hair, cling to the wool of his coat.

He won’t imagine any floating in to settle on his upper lip; that’s dangerous, too dangerous when John is already feeling so romantic.

John pauses too, and stares, hands out at his sides trying very hard to feel for the snowflakes against his fingertips.

“Coming, John?” Sherlock calls, loud. So loud. So loud in the silence created by snow.

John waits a beat, sucks in some of the fresh, cold air that has wiped the city clean. “Yeh, yeh, coming.”

He catches Sherlock up just at the corner and the two men round it together, falling in step with one another. “What was that, then?” Sherlock asks, pulling his gloves just that bit snugger on his fingers.

“I like snow,” John shrugs, settling his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

Sherlock flicks his gaze to him for a brief moment and snidely remarks, “You’ve never mentioned _snow_.”

The way it hits John's ears, somehow so off-putting and demeaning and he shouldn’t have to mention it to Sherlock, true? It’s something that’s important to _him_. Well, not important exactly, but it’s something John so thoroughly enjoys that it stirs in him tender emotions. All of his memories associated with frozen precipitation are happy ones, subconsciously influenced or not.

Besides, Sherlock should surmise as much about him from the hem of his coat and the books he chooses to keep in his case, or perhaps by his brand of toothpaste or the multivitamins he takes. Or something else; Sherlock should be able to read him like a book with very, very large print now, he would imagine. “Well, damn Sherlock, I hadn’t supposed I needed to tell you something like that.”

They are silent for the rest of the block and John is glad for it; the rush of cars in slush on the street is lovely and the footprints of the small animals (cat? fox? dog? John wonders) who tread the edge of this walk before them are perfectly outlined on the pavement. And everything smells so startlingly clean and new; a whole new London, if only for this one moment.

“Intimate,” Sherlock mentions after a bit, as he leads the way in crossing the street, turning up the collar on his coat as John lags just the slightest bit behind. His feet still crunch as they meet the ground, the two of them the very first humans to cut through the undisturbed blanket of white this early in the morning. It would be magical if Sherlock hadn’t, hadn’t...

He doesn’t break his stride as he comments, “I apologize for... disturbing your moment.”

Immediately, John wants to return a snide remark, but Sherlock continues. “You afford me such liberties with my thoughts, I could only extend you the same courtesy.” My oh my, isn’t that something, John thinks, an apology; an honest-to-god apology.

John laughs as they cross against the light, snow kicking up with his faster steps, his footprints long and even, tiny little dunes crested at the absence of the toe of his shoe; he can’t help but admire them for a moment. Like that, just like that with no forethought, his anger dissipates and he’s left just the slightest bit flabbergasted and dumbfounded at Sherlock’s apology. “Sorry, no, not sorry Sherlock, just I understand you don’t... it’s fine.”

Sherlock stops at the corner of the next street - it seems as though they’re going to walk some distance this evening - and faces John, still fiddling with his gloves. “I’d no idea about the _snow_. About the, the weather.”

John smiles off into the distance and then glances back at Sherlock nearly incredulous. “Well why would you, how could you, it’s not...” A lick of the lips - bad idea, will chap- and he continues, “You don’t really need to know every last detail, it’s hardly worth telling.”

Sherlock’s face is blank for a moment and then his jaw sets and he shifts his eyes from John and then back to John, away again. Finally, he settles on John, his fists balled at his sides and his feet equidistant to his shoulders, as though he’s preparing for some unseen standoff.

John has to take a step back because... what is happening? They walk for another few minutes before Sherlock speaks up once more.

“The snow John, how did I miss...” And it appears that Sherlock cares quite a bit that he’s missed the fact that John enjoys the snow, as though that changes their dynamic or changes how Sherlock might view him. As though that changes anything about him at all.

It’s just _snow_. “It’s just snow,” John says so; it’s not, not to him, but it can be. There’s no need for this to become something between them, there really isn’t.

Though, right. Honestly, it makes John feel calm and clean and just a little peaceful, as though a single dusting in London can calm the world, but that’s how it makes him feel. As though there’s nothing that needs fixing. That there’s simply a hand-knit afghan for all and a cup of tea waiting; snow is a delight and a comfort and Sherlock had really no way of knowing. There’s _no reason for him to_ , John convinces himself.

Sherlock rounds in the middle of the street; John hadn’t even seen him begin walking, he’s nearly a quarter block behind. “It’s not!” Sherlock demands and, well, alright, alright. Perhaps it’s not just _snow_ , perhaps it’s the feeling that surrounds it, but then, why should John care that Sherlock understands how he feels about snow?

Sherlock is talking to himself as he walks, not bothering to slow for his partner; a stride behind, John manages to hear him. “Honey in the tea and hardcover over paperback, John. You appreciate Modern art but not Mondrian because you feel as though he really put forth no effort. And you enjoy the color red but choose to wear the color blue more often than not.” Sherlock turns a bit and John makes out his profile, stark lines.

Stark, clean lines.

The detective continues on, starting across yet another street, no longer bothering to glance for traffic. It’s as though they’re honestly the only two out in London at this hour; it’s quite exceptional. “You abhor _Black Adder_ but enjoy _Fortysomething_ and admire Hugh Laurie but you can’t bring yourself to watch _House_ because he uses a cane and you can’t bear the thought you might identify with a fictional character, as such.” After a quick inhale, “You bought Harry a watch for her birthday but you won’t give it to her and sometimes, just when you’re about to fall asleep on the sofa, you say my name.”

John blinks at that. Right, alright. He hates this the same amount that he _loves_ this, a tenuous line.

“John, you prefer plain Digestives to chocolate and enjoy the way I smell and dress to the left.”

Oh, well, alright, John has to stop there, for a moment. Because he says Sherlock’s name as he’s drifting off (how, how _cliche_ ) and because Sherlock knows how he dresses and John can only assume that he’s looked extensively because that’s not, that’s not... how does he know that John likes the way he _smells_.

“So you see John, why the _snow_ is important!” Sherlock shouts as he spins, three-hundred and sixty degrees on the sidewalk. “Don’t you see?”

“You’ve no idea what you’re saying!” he shouts, halfway down Euston Road. It seems as though they’ve been walking forever. His hands are beginning to seize up from the cold and his nose is numb, his ears on fire. They must have gone nearly three kilometers already. “No idea at all! This is all very, very relative to the moment and you’re caught up in some, god, some stupid-,” John says, storming on ahead. “Just drop it.”

“What?” Sherlock says, jogging a bit to catch him up.

“I’m just saying Sherlock that you don’t have to know every bit about me!” John rounds on him just as they reach an intersection; John holds up his hand for a passing cab, but it whizzes right on by them, occupied.

Sherlock stands and waits, regards him. “But I, John, but...”

John tosses up his hand once more to no avail. “What?” John asks as he flips off the empty cab that passes them by.

“I want to.”

That hangs heavy in the air, that admission. That Sherlock Holmes wants to know _everything_ about him. But why? “Why?” John asks, truly at a loss, his voice exasperated, annoyed, filled with wonder. It’s brilliant and rather confusing.

Sherlock’s nose screws up and his mouth twists and John is aware he doesn’t want to say whatever it is he’s about to. There are certain things that he can read on his friend; the pulling at the corners of his eyes denotes that this whole exchange is just a bit distasteful but like a dog with a bone, Sherlock won’t let go until it’s resolved. And so, this is important, then. “I’ve no idea,” he finally admits and at once a taxi rolls up beside them, halting the moment.

John stands there, stock still, at a loss for just about everything. For Sherlock to say he has no idea, well...

“Oi! Where to!?” the cabbie calls impatiently and Sherlock leans past John to open the door and waits for him to enter.

“Baker Street,” Sherlock says quietly and glances out the window, resolutely avoiding John’s eyes. That’s fine, perfectly fine for the time being because John is content to ponder on Sherlock’s need to know him while cataloguing just how the snow has settled on the buildings of London.

When they stop at a light, John peeks over to his left only to note that Sherlock is facing right out the window, neck torqued in a resolute right angle. There’s a steady rise and fall to his chest and John finds himself admiring his flatmate for longer than he intended; it happens, often.

It happens because they’ve become so close. It happens because John is not a silly man, he’s not ignorant, he’s often thought about a situation a trifle more intimate with his best friend. He’s thought about his lips and the way he would taste, how he would feel-his collarbone specifically, how that would feel naked under John’s fingertips. He’s chosen not to quantify it, the feeling that arises in him when he imagines for a brief second here or there, holding Sherlock’s hand or running his fingers through his hair.

More than affection, John supposes now, as he watches a sheet of fresh power slide off of a particularly pitched roof and land upon the ground with a spectacular burst of white. Love, more likely, John reasons, bites his lip to stop either a smile or a frown. He doesn’t know which.

The notion of love in general, it doesn’t terrify him, though it is a little unsettling because it’s Sherlock. He’s killed men for Sherlock, he’s seen people die, he’s faced his own mortality numerous times and had to fear for the lives of others. Love, love doesn’t seem that extraordinary in the wake of such matter.

It is... a bit scary. Just a bit. Just the slightest bit.

Then why in the world-if he’s entertaining the notion of loving Sherlock-is the thought of Sherlock wanting to know him so entirely unsettling?

That too is fairly easy now that John is facing the issue head on; certain truths are discovered in the quiet din of London cabs, John has come to discover: the thought of Sherlock feeling the same about him is _overwhelming_ and blindingly terrifying. A man so passionate and devoted to his work, whose eyes light fire when there is something he wants or _needs_. The thought of that sort of attention focused upon him is... is...

It’s that he feels he doesn’t deserve it.

“You’re thinking abnormally boisterously tonight,” Sherlock murmurs and John snaps around to glance at him.

They pull up to 221 and Sherlock leans forward to hand the driver three crisp bills and says nothing as he moves smoothly from the taxi to the street. John follows, less than graceful upon his exit. The cab pulls noisily away and they’re left there, standing in a flurry that has increased.

John fumbles with the keys in his pocket for a moment while Sherlock simply stands before him on the sidewalk. “I apologize if I’ve caused you-” Sherlock begins.

“No, no apologizing,” John finds the key to the front door and steps up to it. “I... I suppose if anyone were to know everything about me, it would be you,” John says with a laugh and steps inside, waiting for Sherlock to step through before closing the door. He faces Sherlock in the gunsmoke din of the hallway. “I suppose... I’d like it to be you.”

They stare at one another for a moment, Sherlock’s eyes reducing to tiny slits. “Hm,” Sherlock hums and falls back against the wall, the same spot that he and John had laughed together on the evening of their first case.

John mimics him, taking his position from months previous. On a whim-and truly, that’s what it is; there’s no forethought whatsoever-John reaches over blindly and grasps at Sherlock’s hand.

The other man’s head turns, gaze falling upon John’s face and he stares, breathes. Stares. _Breathes_. John can hear everything, the rush of his breath against his teeth, the slight rustling of his trousers as he shifts in his stance. John can’t help it, has to turn and _see_.

“I shouted,” John whispers. “And that was a bit not good; I should save my shouting for moments-”

“John, shut up,” Sherlock directs and just like that, John shuts his mouth.

“Please allow me to,” but then Sherlock stops and shifts his hand in John’s, holding it properly. He takes a moment to choose his words, settles back into the wall fully. “If you were to know someone completely in this lifetime it would be-if it could, I would very much want for that person to be myself.”

A tiny smile dusts John’s lips and for a moment, he holds his breath.

“There’s a lot to know,” John whispers, the back of his head against the wall.

Sherlock follows suit. “Not terribly.”

“You daft man, there are _volumes_ to read,” John says fondly. “But I’m a fast learner and I’ve been paying attention for quite a spell now, so...”

“Will you explain to me about the snow?” Sherlock’s voice is even, as though he’s asked John to hand him his cell phone; there are no traces of affection in his voice and John understands. For Sherlock to know him, he first has to acquire all of the details, he has to distance himself from sentiment.

“Yes,” John decides but he wonders just how long it will take for Sherlock to learn his fill about him, before he can allow for some sentiment.

He’ll wait for Sherlock.

“But tomorrow,” John breathes and Sherlock squeezes his hand before John pulls away. “Now, we need to sleep.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees and they both ascend the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Robyn for her continued support.


End file.
